1838, Nov.—On my first arrival at Allahabad I thought I should never get through all the arrangements necessary before my departure for England; so many farewell visits were to be paid to my old friends, and so many preparations were to be made for the voyage. Her Highness the Bāiza Bā’ī was still at Allahabad, and she sent for me. One of the Italian greyhounds given me by Captain Osborne having died, I took the other two, and presented them to the Gaja Rājā Sāhib, the young princess having expressed a wish to have one: I gave her also a black terrier, and one of King Charles’s spaniels.

One day a Mahratta lady came to my house, riding, en cavalier, on a camel, which she managed apparently with the greatest ease; she told me her Highness requested I would call immediately upon her. On my arrival in camp, after the ceremony of meeting had passed, the Bāiza Bā’ī said, “You are going to England,—will you procure for me three things? The first is, a perfectly high caste Arabian mare; secondly, a very, very little dog, just like a ball, covered with long hair, perfectly white, and having red eyes; and thirdly, a mechanical figure, that, standing on a slack rope, with a pole in its hand, balances itself, and moves in time to the music that plays below it.”

I thought of the fairy tales, in which people are sent to roam the world in search of marvellous curiosities, and found myself as much perplexed as was ever knight of old by the commands of a fairy. The Bā’ī added, “You know a good Arab, I can trust your judgment in the selection; the little dogs, they say, come from Bombay: you can bring them all with you in the ship on your return.”

I informed her Highness that very few Arabs were in England; that in her Majesty’s stud there were some, presents from Eastern Princes, who were not likely to part with the apple of their eyes: that I did not think an Arab mare was to be had in the country. With respect to the little powder-puff dog with the red eyes, I would make enquiries: and the mechanical figure could be procured from Paris.

A few days after this visit one of her ladies called on me, and the following conversation ensued:—

Mahratta Lady—“You are going to England,—you will be absent eighteen months or two years,—have you arranged all your household affairs? You know how much interest I take in your welfare; I hope you have made proper arrangements.”

I assured her I had.

“Yes, yes, with respect to the household, that is all very well; but with respect to your husband, what arrangement have you made? It is the custom with us Mahrattas, if a wife quit her husband, for her to select and depute another lady to remain with him during her absence;—have you selected such a one?”

“No,” said I, with the utmost gravity; “such an arrangement never occurred to me;—will you do me the honour to supply my place?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I suppose you English ladies would only select one wife; a Mahratta would select two to remain with her husband during her absence.”

I explained to her the opinions of the English on such subjects: our ideas appeared as strange to her as hers were to me; and she expressed herself grieved that I should omit what they considered a duty.

27th.—I called on the ex-Queen of Gwalior, and took leave in all due form; the dear old lady was very sorry to part with me,—the tears ran down her cheeks, and she embraced me over and over again. I was sincerely grieved to part with her Highness, with whom and in whose camp I had passed so many happy hours, amused with beholding native life and customs, and witnessing their religious ceremonies. The next day she sent me the complimentary farewell dinner, which it is the custom to present to a friend on departure: I partook of some of the Mahratta dishes, in which, to suit my taste, they had omitted musk or assafœtida; the cookery was good; pān, atr, and rose-water, as usual, ended the ceremony.

Those ladies who are kind enough to support and educate the orphan children of natives, are startled at times by curious occurrences. A lady at this station lately married one of her orphans to a drummer in the 72nd regiment, and gave twenty rupees as a portion; the man was drunk for about a week; in a fortnight he made over his wife to another drummer, and in a month came to the lady, saying, “If you please, Ma’am, I should like to marry again.” “Why, John Strong, you were married a few days ago!” “Yes, Ma’am, but I made over she to my comrade.” Imagine the lady’s amazement and horror! The man John Strong went away, and told his officers he thought he had been very ill-used. The man was a half-caste Christian, the girl a converted native.

The famine in the north-western provinces has been occasioned by the almost entire failure of the usual rains. Government has done much in giving employment to those who can work, and food and medical aid to the sick; and more than a lākh of rupees has already been raised by private subscription on our side of India, and they are subscribing for the same purpose very liberally in the Bombay Presidency. Allahabad luckily has escaped, but every sort of grain is very dear, and large farm-yards like ours are somewhat costly. During the time of the famine the natives sold their children in order to save their lives; and large numbers of the unfortunate Būndelās, the natives of Būndel-khand, arrived at Allahabad, famished and dying; subscriptions were raised, and the poor wretches were supported by charity. A most excellent and religious lady at the station proposed sending to the up-country, where the famine raged the most severely, and purchasing ten young girls; these girls she undertook to bring up in the Christian religion, to teach them reading, writing, and needlework, and on their attaining a suitable age, to put them into service as ayahs to European ladies. The ladies at the station entered into her plans, and I agreed to buy and support two girls as my share. A calculation was then entered into as to the expense that would be incurred; I told her, “The other day, a Būndelā woman came to my door with twins in a basket, which she offered for sale for two rupees! I was greatly surprised; the little naked creatures sprawling in the basket were in good condition, but their mother was a skeleton. ‘Two rupees!’ said I, ‘that is a high price; I will give you one rupee for the twins, if you give me the basket into the bargain.’ The poor woman, delighted at having found a purchaser on any terms, laid her children at my feet, and making many salāms, thanked me for having saved them from death. I took them into the room where my husband was sitting, and laid them on the table as a present for him: he laughed, and gave me some money for the woman. I returned the twins, and sent her to the place where the Būndelās are supported by the contributions of the station.”

Having heard this history, my friend wrote to a clergyman up the country, who purchased for us ten girls, all under eleven years of age, and sent them down; the market for children was looking up; he charged us the enormous price of ten rupees apiece! They were placed in a comfortable house, with a school-mistress to instruct them; every care was taken of them, and the ladies of the station attended the school, and superintended their morals. It certainly flourished to a very great degree; they studied the commandment, “increase and multiply and replenish the earth,” with so much assiduity, that in a short time all the little girls were in a fair way of becoming mammas;—a circumstance perfectly inexplicable, unless they had eaten the seeds of the peepul-tree:—a peasant girl in Hampshire declared the same effect was produced by eating water-cresses. It was an annoying failure, that experimental school of ours. Speaking to an officer in the 16th Lancers, of the care that had been taken of these girls, of the religious instruction that had been bestowed upon them, and the disheartening finale of our charitable labours, he said, “In that dreadful famine hordes of wretched famished Būndelās flocked into Cawnpore, and very liberal subscriptions were collected to feed them; great numbers, however, perished from hunger, and mothers offered their children for sale for one rupee each: several were bought by very well-intentioned persons, to be educated, and converted to Christianity. Some little time after the Būndelās had disappeared from the station, I happened to be dining with an old friend, who, in the evening, asked if I would accompany her in her drive to the bungalow where these children were being educated to form ladies’ maids, as she had a favour to ask of me, that I would that evening stand godfather to twenty-two of these children; I declined the honour, and some months afterwards heard that these children would shortly require godfathers and godmothers for their own offspring, should they bring them up as Christians.”

The enormous pillar now prostrate near the entrance gate of the Fort at Allahabad is to be set up on a pedestal, on an ascent of steps, and surmounted by a lion couchant. Colonel Edward Smith is entrusted with the performance of the work. The natives call it Bhīm Singh kí lāt—that is, Bhīm Singh’s walking-stick. The hajjām (the barber), whom I consulted on the subject, says he was a great pahalwān (wrestler): further I know not.

Seneca says, “It is harder to judge and examine than to take opinions upon trust; and therefore the far greater part of the world borrow from others those which they entertain concerning all the affairs of life and death.” In the present instance, like the world in general, I take my opinion of the pillar upon trust, and firmly believe in all the barber asserts; more especially, as some of the inscriptions on the lāt are in unknown characters; those of the mighty dead, who have disappeared from the earth, leaving records imperishable but incomprehensible. The Bāiza Bā’ī was very anxious to erect this pillar at her own expense, and I believe made the offer to the Lieutenant-Governor. She also wished to build a fine ghāt at the Trivenī, which, in conjunction with the magnificent one she was then building at Benares, might have carried her name to posterity.

28th.—My friend Mrs. B— and her four children arrived; she is to accompany me to Calcutta: and a Manis has been sent me to add to my collection.

Dec. 1st.—We quitted Allahabad, and proceeded down the river, calling on those friends en passant of whom I wished to take leave. At Mirzapore the head of a ravine deer was given me. Off Patna a quantity of arwarī fish were brought alongside for breakfast; they were delicious; the remainder we had smoked in shakar and chokar—that is, coarse sugar and wheat bran: let no one neglect this economical luxury,—the smoked arwarī are delicious.

17th.—Both the boys being very ill of fever, we hastened on for medical assistance. At night, as Mrs. B— was quitting my boat to go to her own, passing down the plank, it upset, and she was thrown into the river; it was as deep as her waist; the night was dark, and the stream strong; she was saved by a bearer’s catching her gown as she was sinking; fortunately the bearer was in attendance, carrying a lantern. The rest of the people were on the shore eating their dinners, which they had just cooked. I called to the dāndīs to assist, not a man would stir; they were not six yards from her, and saw her fall into the river. I reprimanded them angrily, to which they coolly answered,—“We were eating our dinners, what could we do?” Natives are apathetic with respect to all things, with the exception of rupees and khānā-pīnā—that is, “meat and drink.”

18th.—To avoid the return of the accident of yesterday, this evening our vessels were lashed together; I went to my friend’s boat to see the poor boys, who were delirious; on my return I did not see that the hold of my boat was open; the shadows deceived me in the uncertain light, and meaning to jump from the railing of her vessel upon the deck of my own, I took a little spring, and went straight down the hold: falling sideways with my waist across a beam, the breath was beaten out of my body for a moment, and there I hung like the sign of the golden fleece. The people came to my assistance, and brought me up again; it was fortunate the beam stopped my further descent. I was bathed with hot water, and well rubbed with dēodar oil, which took off the pain and stiffness very effectually.

19th.—Anchored at Monghir; sent to the Sītā Khūnd, and bottled off a quantity of water for use on board ship; it keeps good for ever, that bright, beautiful, sparkling water from Sītā’s well; we had the precaution to bring corks with us.

The interview between Runjeet Singh and the Governor-General has taken place,—it must have been a fine sight; had I not been going to England I would have seen the meeting. Miss Eden presented Runjeet Singh with a picture of the Queen, painted by herself.

My correspondent here mentions, that the presents given by the Seiks were handed round on trays;—a far less military style than that adopted by the Rajpūt, whose shield always forms the tray which contains his offerings.

20th.—When in the Hills, roaming in the interior, I met with an accident, a fall: coming down a rock, my long silk gown having caught on a projecting part of it, I was thrown headlong down; therefore I made a dress more suited for such expeditions, a black Paharī dress, somewhat resembling Turkish attire. My fair companion admired it exceedingly, and made one for herself after the same fashion; large round sailor-looking straw hats completed the costume: they were comfortable dresses on the river. My ayha, who accompanied me to the bazār last night, told me the natives said to her, “Ayha, ayha, is that a man or a woman?”—“A man.” “Ayha, tell the truth, is it a man or a woman?”—“A man.” “Then why are you with him?”—“Oh, the sāhib brought me to bargain for things in the bazār.” I asked her why she had said I was a man? She replied, “They are great thieves, and if they think you a man they are less likely to attempt to rob the boats.” Her stratagem amused me. The purchases I made were certainly not feminine, consisting of sixty-five bamboos and some shot; and I superintended the fixing of some brass work on a musket that was out of repair.

We are at this moment surrounded by a great number of boats; the people belonging to them are singing and playing on all sorts of uncouth instruments; such a hum, and such a din!—it will be useless to attempt to rest until these perturbed spirits have sung themselves to sleep.

22nd.—Off Pointy, where the river is rapid and dangerous, we saw two vessels that had been just wrecked. The owner of the land (the jamīndar) was taking up the cargo from the wrecks; half becomes his share, and the owners of the vessels have only the remainder.

25th.—A stormy day; during a lull we attempted to cross the river; half-way over a heavy wind rendered my boat unmanageable, and we were driven by the wind upon a clump of bamboo stumps that were just above water in the middle of the stream: the crew were alarmed, and shouted “Rām! rām! āh’e Khudā! āh’e Khudā!” Fortunately, the boat being strong and new, she did not split open, and after a time we got her off again; the wind then drove us up a creek, and we lugāoed on a sandbank. The gale separated me from my fair friend, whose boat was driven to the opposite side of the river; her people were calling to know if I were safe; it was impossible to rejoin her; she heard the answering shouts of my men in the distance, and was satisfied. We were like the Brahmanī ducks, the chakwā chakwī, separated by the river, and calling through the live-long night “ā’o, ā’o,” “come, come.”

26th.—We anchored below the village of Downapūr, which had been washed away into the river during the last rains, by the force of the current having undermined its banks. My fair friend and I roamed in the beautiful moonlight by ourselves, attired in our Paharī dresses and straw hats, to a village at some distance. The women took us for cadets, and ran away in a great fright; nor was it for a length of time we could bring an ugly old hag to a parley; at last we succeeded, and bought a Bengalee goat and kid; the villagers were excessively afraid of us, and with great difficulty we persuaded them to bring the goats to the vessel. They asked my companion where her regiment was stationed; and imagined my wife was parda nishīn on board the boats. We did not undeceive them with respect to our manhood.

On my return I asked the sentry on my boat, “What hour is it?” The man answered, “When Honey is perpendicular over the mast it is midnight; it must now be eleven.” His Honey are the three stars in Orion’s belt.

27th.—Anchored below Sooty on the Bhagirathī. I was awakened from my sleep at 10 P.M. by the servants saying my cook had been missing since 7 in the evening; his age is twenty; and he had never quitted the boats before. We looked over all the boats, and searched the jāngal for miles around, and we began to fear a tiger might have taken him off, knowing that gentlemen are in the habit of coming to this part of the country tiger-shooting. My friend became uneasy, and was anxious to go to the opposite side of the river; to this I objected, offering to keep a bonfire blazing before the boats all night, but refusing to quit the spot until the boy’s fate was ascertained. At last he was discovered on the top of my boat, hanging over the side as if he had fallen there; on moving him he groaned as if in severe agony, and appeared senseless; his jaw was locked, his eyes were fixed, and turned up under the lids. The poor fellow had been exposed in this state to the dews of a Bengal night for three hours. They brought him into my cabin, he fell into the most violent convulsions, and appeared dying. All the remedies for fits were applied; we placed him in a warm bath; after three hours and a half his jaw relaxed, his eyes moved as if the pressure was off them, and being better, the servants carried him, still apparently senseless, into the cook-boat. I had been up with him four hours in a damp foggy night, anxious for his recovery; his father was our cook, and this young native had been with us eleven years under his father. Mrs. B— said, “I heard a native hint to another that the boy is not in a fit; and I have heard natives will sham illness, and deceive any body.” I called a servant, and asked him if it were true. The man, standing on one leg, with the palms of both hands clasped together, said, “What can I say? will you forgive me? If you were my master I would tell you; but how can I utter such words of shame to my mistress? Say you will forgive me for uttering such words, and I will tell you, if you order me to do so.” He then related what had passed, and said, the boy, hearing himself called, became alarmed, hid himself, and, on being discovered, shammed illness.

I desired the chaprasī to take a little riding whip in his hand, and accompany me into the cook-boat; the boy was better, but had not recovered from his fit,—the violent convulsions had gone off. I ordered the head man to cut off his hair, and apply leeches to his head; during the operation the itching of his head made him put up his hand and scratch it. I saw from his countenance he was angry, for the shaving of the head is, I believe, the sign of complete slavery with a native, and he found it difficult to sham illness. The operation over, the khalāsī gave him a sharp cut with the whip over his hand, desired him to leave off shamming, and come on deck. Finding his imposition was discovered, he got up, and in the most impudent manner said, “What fault have I committed?—what have I done that is wrong?” When I told a chaprasī to take charge of him, and take him to the nearest magistrate, the cook fell at my feet, confessed his crime, and begged I would not send him away; requesting a panchāyāt might be held on his conduct, or that I would punish him according to my pleasure. I told the people to hold a panchāyāt according to their own customs, to report the sentence to me, and it should be carried into execution. The whole of the people assembled in council under a sacred tree on the bank, and deliberated on the case: at the termination of the consultation the elders came to me saying they had decided as follows:—The cook was to receive twenty-two lashes, that he was to lose caste, and to have his hukka panī bāndh—that is, they would no longer allow him to associate with themselves, eat or smoke with them, or worship with the faithful. They requested I would turn him out of the boats, that they should be allowed to take him on shore, put him on an ass with his face to the tail of the animal, and followed by drums, and the hooting of the rabble, they should lead the donkey through the village, and then turn him off for ever. This was a severe sentence, and showed how angry the people of his own caste had become: they gave him the twenty-two lashes, he lost caste, and was not allowed to worship on deck as usual. I would not turn him out of service, knowing it would be his ruin, and I felt compassion for his pretty young wife, whom he had left at Allahabad; nor would I allow them to parade him on an ass. The panchāyāt took into consideration the conduct of the under-woman; the servants had told her if she had hidden the cook any where, if she would tell he should be released, and nothing should be said about it: that they would not awaken me; they only wanted to find him. She swore she had not seen him at all; she was present during the four hours he was pretending to be ill,—she saw how much alarmed I was,—also that during this time I was exposed to the night air; and she aided in the deception. They condemned her according to law, but as the sentence was very severe, I only allowed a part of it to be put into execution. She was obliged to blacken her own face with soot and oil as she sat on deck; all the servants came round her,—they laughed, hooted, and complimented her on her beauty; she cried bitterly,—the punishment was severe enough; she was afraid she should be paraded on the donkey, and was very glad to find I would not allow it. The next day she wanted the cook to marry her, and make her a Musalmanī, saying, her husband on her return would cut off her nose, and break into the zenāna of the cook. However, she was disappointed in her wish of becoming a follower of the Prophet, it being discovered she had another lover: this extra lover also lost caste, and had his hukka panī bāndh.

Knowing the natives are apt to administer poison in revenge, I mentioned the circumstance to my khansaman, and said, “It is immaterial to me, but, in case of my death, you will be answerable to the sāhib.” The man made his salām, saying, “On my head be it: you have punished the man justly; there is nothing to fear: had he been punished unjustly he might have revenged himself by putting poison in your food.” “Very well,” said I, “it is your concern, not mine;”—and I finished my dinner.

29th.—Arrived at Berhampūr, at which place a bearer of mine related the following history:—

“In former times, when the English first came to Kalkut (Calcutta), a very rich merchant resided at Moorshedabad, by name Jugger Seit: this man was a great harām-zāda (rascal), never obeyed the orders of the Nawāb, was very rich, and had two hundred soldiers as a body-guard. One day he boasted that he could day by day dethrone such a Nawāb as the one at Moorshedabad, and daily place a new one on the throne: these words having been reported to the Nawāb, he sent two soldiers to seize the merchant. While the man was bathing in the river, away from his attendants, the soldiers fell upon him; and one of them having stabbed him in the side, they carried him before the Nawāb. He offered as his ransom to strew the road from Moorshedabad to Delhi with gold mohurs; but the Nawāb was inflexible. The merchant was fastened into a palanquin, placed in a small boat, carried out into the river in front of the Nawāb’s house, and thrown palkī and all into the stream, where of course he was drowned.” So ends the tale of the Nawāb, the Merchant, and the Palkī.

30th.—Remained at Berhampūr, to write letters, buy silks, also figures of men and animals beautifully carved in ivory, and to procure food.

31st.—Quitted Berhampūr. I have suffered so much during the last twelvemonth from the death of relatives and friends, that I now bid adieu to the past year without regret. May the new one prove happier than the last!